“No regrets in life, son. Only lessons learned!” is something that my owner had said multiple times after he had a few clouds of smoke out of his pipe. He said it to his friends, his family, and nowadays even random people he meets at the restaurant down the street. I can see him from where I am. Who am I? I am a shoe- Vintage Collection! I can feel the warm wood board floors now that I lay on this hard pavement. There aren’t any regrets in my life either, to be entirely truthful. Would I have liked that I went back home with my partner, still on the feet that I had known for the past decades? Yes, very much so. But life has other plans, and so I accept them.
Early Days
The weather is not very different from the day I was born, well, manufactured. It was a tall factory, a crown of black sitting on its top and the stench of leather engulfing each bit of its surroundings. I looked too good to be a part of it, all shining in my brand-new armor. I saw my partner right beside me. She could not have been happier that we were the first couple being shipped out. We saw two scuffed hands pick us from the lot and wrap us in butter paper.
Limited edition, yet unlimited production.
Then into boxes we went, and sent to shops all over the globe. We even had a special polish made to take care of us. The manufacturer had interviewed that it was the only polish that could help us last longer than any other shoe. I have many bones to pick with my owner who didn’t believe in buying that polish. Who knows, I could’ve had a chance at a longer life!
While I was thinking of all the bottles of polish I could have had, and what they would have done to my then precious skin, I began to observe that none of the passers-by had my siblings on their feet. There were shimmering new shoes that didn’t even have the courage to be on the display board back in my day, but now were the walk of the town.
Moments of Glory
Back in 1981, when my partner and I were put on the stand, to look at the beautiful view, we were gawked at by all sorts of pedestrians. We couldn’t turn around, but we knew that all the pairs that had arrived with us were being sold out at rapid speed. Soon, it was our turn. We saw the owner’s face for the first time the next day. It was a bright Sunday; he wore us out to a lunch party. The moment the click of our soles hit the ears of the guests, we were the belle of the ball. All anyone could do was compliment us. If we hadn’t already been dark brown, I am confident that even the human eye could have detected our blush.
Scuffed Hands Again
Decades have passed since then, and right now I find myself in a rather sticky situation being held in scuffed hands again. This time, of a homeless gentleman whose beard is long enough to touch my hanging sole. He turns me upside down, inspecting my insides with no respect for my privacy or care for the stench that is emitted by years of residue. He tries me on for size as if I was the exact and yet opposite of Cinderella’s glass slipper.
After realizing that I am not really his size, he discards me a little away from my original position. This time I can no longer see the restaurant in clear view.
I start to think about the last time I had someone other than my owner wear me. He was very particular about us, the way we were kept and where he wore us. However, from the lack of correct polish, I should have seen it coming that this care would soon be lost. His son, who had worn me once before declaring that I was not his type, had left the house soon after to go to college. My owner’s daughter never cared much for me, she did, however, care a lot for the sandals that sat on the shelf right beside us. It used to strike a rather harsh jealousy between my partner and the sandals, but I was of course above all of that.
Final Moments
Drops of water come falling down on the road and then on the pavement and then on me. The thunder is loud and the lightning is clear. I have never seen such weather before, only heard that I was not one to go out in it. I was to stay in a box, far, far away from water. The tall, rubber boots that never had a box were the trained soldiers for this mission.
Those boots have been long gone. We carried our owner through thick and thin than they ever could. I was proud of outlasting those boots. We had carried him to the pub, to the restaurant, to the house, to the bus stand. All the places that he went to nowadays, with no one to wait for him but us. His family was his soul, and they had the same relation I have to my sole. Slowly ripping apart, trying to keep ourselves together with glue, but it’s never the same. Each rip causes more damage, even to the rest of the body.
I remember all the times that I had walked right up this path, and how many times I had felt my owner’s feelings. He believed each day could be his last. Today, I feel it too. I can see it coming towards me, even hear it. A dog hovers above me, he clutches me in its teeth and walks away.
This is probably my destiny!
Writer : Kriti Gupta (Check Kriti’s blog )
Grade : 11 (Year 2023)
Place : Ambala, India
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